


Big Hearts Are For Breaking

by glitteratiglue



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Break Up, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 20:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3395324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteratiglue/pseuds/glitteratiglue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If the fire's still burning, you might as well just burn it all down. Cristina/Owen pre-departure fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big Hearts Are For Breaking

**Author's Note:**

> Set around the time of S10 ep 24: 'Fear (Of The Unknown).

****The door of the trailer bangs open, and you find him seated on the end of the bed, staring into space with his fingers steepled. It's late, and you just came back for a quick change before heading out again; you weren't sure whether he'd be here or not.

“Owen?” There's no response. You repeat yourself. “Owen? Hello? Somebody in there?” It takes waving a hand in front of his face to get him to look up, and it's plain to see he's not in good shape.

His face is drawn, eyes red-rimmed and he's definitely been crying. This is exactly why you weren't going to do this all those weeks ago -- until he kissed you and he said those things and you couldn't _not_ do it. Playing house for the last couple of weeks has been a welcome distraction for you both from the inevitable, but that's all it is, and all it can be: a fantasy, playing at real life before it all comes crashing down. You thought you'd accepted this and learned to be okay with it; it turns out you're about as good at lying to yourself as Owen is.

Blinking back the moisture that's threatening to sting your eyes, you force a smile and slump down on the comforter next to him.

“Come on, friend, there's no need for that,” you say brightly, giving his arm a friendly punch; he doesn't respond and just continues staring blankly into the distance.

“Is it gonna be tomorrow?” he eventually says, in a cracked, hollow voice.

“I don't know. I think so. I'm pushing it as it is, but I just want to see the last of my patients out.”

It hurts you that you don't sound more excited about going, because you are -- you've worked for this, and your skin tingles at the thought of the fancy equipment in Switzerland, all the things you could do and all the challenges that lie ahead. He says he doesn't want you to hide it around him, but you see the pain behind his eyes when you talk about it. So you don't.

Owen raises his head and meets your eyes for the first time since you entered the trailer. “There'll always be another patient. Someone to save. You can't wait forever for Zurich.” His voice shakes on the last word, like he can't bring himself to say it.

Feeling your stomach twist, you realise you're a shade from from howling agony yourself, and you promised yourself after he cheated that you'd never give Owen the satisfaction of that sight again. Even with all the water that's passed under the bridge since then, and all the ways the two of you have changed (and haven't), you're still Cristina Yang and you don't break your promises, ever. Especially not to yourself.

“I can't take it, Cristina,” Owen bursts out in a rush of emotion. “I can't take not knowing whether or not this is going to be our last night together. I can't take it anymore.”

This has gone far enough. With one decisive motion, you grab his shoulders and give him a firm shake.

“Cristina, what the--?” Owen scowls, his hands instinctively moving to cover your own with the quick reflexes of a soldier, but he doesn't take them away, just holds you there while he stares at you accusingly.

“You have got to stop this,” you say briskly. “Don't be a baby about this. I would never have said yes if I thought it was going to turn you into waterworks. Because we know what happens then, don't we?” You're starting to sound hysterical, and you know it, but you can't stop yourself. Despite his damp eyes, Owen's suddenly grinning, and there's a familiar mischievous glint in his eye. “I'll cry, too! And we'll just be one big crying mess having sex in the ruins of our tears and that's just -”

He doesn't give you a chance to say any more, just moves in and kisses you, all wet and hot and open and passionate in a way that makes you moan.

Abandoning all rational thought –- because when did you go in for that with Owen, anyway? –- you let him take you in his arms and return his bruising kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck to bring him closer as his tongue slides into your mouth.

After all, if the fire's still burning, you might as well just burn it all down.

“A bad love song, right? That's what you were going to say,” he murmurs when he pulls back, and you laugh in agreement, feeling your heartbeat accelerate as he slips his hands under your shirt with a press of heated skin on skin, and pulls it off in one movement, followed quickly by your bra. His fingertips splay out over each breast and he smiles at your soft sigh when your nipples tighten against his palm.

Then your hands are working at his shirt and pants and underwear, unbuttoning and pulling at fabric insistently until there's nothing but warm skin. He pulls you into his lap and you wrap your hand around him, feel the heat of his cock press into your abdomen. Grasping tighter, you pick up the pace a little, close your eyes and listen to his every quiet groan into your ear, until his hand grabs yours and he gruffly tells you to stop.

In an instant, he throws you down onto the bed with a force that makes you laugh and your head spin as it tries to readjust to the sudden realignment of your body.

There's a playfulness in Owen's expression as he leans in to kiss you again with an urgency that makes you gasp and arch against him, longing for any kind of friction, but he's not going to give it, not yet. You know that look, that quickly-smothered smile that tells of wicked intent and you giggle, in spite of yourself. Sexually, things have always been pretty equal between the two of you, but you can tell that tonight he wants to _have_ you, and you're going to let him, because it feels so damn good.

“You're a bad man,” you tell him, even as you feel his lips curving against your neck and the gentle bite of teeth scraping the skin that makes you tremble. His fingers fumble with the buttons of your jeans as he slowly gets them open, and you think about how if you'd planned this, you would have worn your scrub pants for easy access.

“If I'm bad, it's because you _want_ me to be,” he murmurs, swallows your soft moan into a deep kiss before he hooks his thumbs into your jeans and underwear and slips them down together.

His hands –- those rough, callused hands you'll miss so much –- travel down your thighs and push them apart with no preamble, his mouth following a path of bites from breast to hip that make you cry out and twist your fingers in his hair, urging him lower. He looks up to meet your gaze as he places one particularly hard bite on your inner thigh –- it's going to leave teeth marks -– and you catch the hint of something darker in his eyes. Leaving marks all over you would appeal to Owen's possessive sensibilities, and so you cover his hands resting on your thighs with your own, pressing them so the short half-moons of his nails will mark the skin; it's a decent compromise.

He breathes out hot over you, enough to make you squirm with wanting it, then his mouth's _right there_ and you can't breathe, can't even cry out because it feels so – _God, perfect,_ “please Owen, please” – and you're already writhing, yanking at his hair where your fingers are tangled in it, wanting it harder, wanting more, and he obliges.

He draws your orgasm out from you in record time with a succession of high, keening cries that fall from your lips like they're whispers of devotion. You're still shaking, trying to come down when he draws your leg up and then he's pushing inside, slow enough that you're gasping, leaning up to kiss him breathlessly as he draws back to go in deeper.

Owen's never been a gentle lover, and you like that, _need_ the roughness of his touch and the sharpness of his thrusts. You've always known that you're bossy -- in bed or out of it -- and you need someone who can stand up to that; not a supplicant who worships you, but a man who can bend and break you in the most exquisite ways like he can.

If it was all soft words and gentle movements and tender kisses to your neck, you would full-on fall apart and sob all over him like the stupid, broken _girl_ you've been trying not to be. And that would be bad.

You gasp into his mouth when he kisses you and thrusts deeper, so deep that it hurts just enough to feel really good. Scratching your nails down his back to grab his ass brings a gratifying groan from Owen, because he's always liked a bit of pain and you know that better than anyone. He's comfortable with pain; maybe that would be sad if you didn't know him so well, but it's part of who he is and just another thing you learned to love about him.

You dig your nails in harder as he wraps shaking fingers around your thigh and pins it right up against your body, and you wrap your other leg round his back, trying to bring him closer to you if that were even physically possible right now.

He pauses a moment, pulls at your arm so it falls flat against the sheets.

“Touch yourself, Cristina.” His voice is low and rough in a way that makes you want to do whatever he says. You let him guide your hand down between you, he starts to thrust again and you make quick circles around your clit –- you're close enough as it is that it won't take much -- until heat flares beneath your skin and rises, letting go in one uncontrolled burst that makes your eyes close and your toes curl. Your eyes fly open as you feel him go deeper, groaning softly against your neck as he spills himself inside you. You're there with him, stroking your hands up and down his back while he shivers.

You're both still for a minute, aware of each other's heavy breathing. Cupping your face with his hands, he kisses you deeply and gently pulls back to lie next to you.

There are no words for what seems like an hour, but you've glanced at the beside clock once or twice and it can only be minutes, at best.

“Do you want to talk?” you ask, turning your head towards his where it rests on the pillow. The same blank, empty expression has returned to Owen's face, and you inwardly curse yourself for letting this happen, for being so weak and hurting him even more.

“No, I'm good,” he says, but then he smiles a half-smile at you, kisses your hair and wraps an arm around you, pulling you against his chest. The guilty knot in your chest loosens itself a little, and you close your eyes and take the opportunity to just breathe him in. He smells all woodsy and manly and _Owen_ , and it almost makes you cry before you catch yourself and pull away from him, quickly getting out of bed before he notices you're teary.

You settle for a quick visit to the tiny trailer bathroom; you might have showered, but you're going to be late to meet Meredith for drinks, and anyway, maybe you want to still feel Owen inside you and enjoy that secret, dirty thrill while you still can.

With a sudden amused thought, you creep back to the bed on tiptoes and lean down to whisper in his ear: “You'd better get some sleep, because I'm going to be drunk and handsy when I get back."

The sleepy smile Owen gives you before his eyes close against the pillow tells you more than you wanted to know about how much he's looking forward to that.

That's the part that hurts worst of all.

**Author's Note:**

> Title provided by the song _American Love_ by _Jack's Mannequin_.
> 
> I had _The Gaslight Anthem's_ excellent album _Get Hurt_ on repeat while writing this fic.
> 
> I'm aware that second person narrative is a little left-field and I don't often use it, but it gave an immediacy to this fic that appealed to me.


End file.
